A Practical Arrangement
by harrishawksuperiour
Summary: Bodily urges and sexual frustration only amount to one thing for General Armitage Hux: Distraction. In order to fully dedicate himself to cementing the First Order as an unrivalled powerhouse, distraction must be circumvented.


Once a standard week rotation, every standard week rotation. Something happens, a suspension of the carefully ordered hierarchy and power dynamic on a Benduday night; no other night will do as routine is sacred.

20.05 hours, not a second later. That's when he arrives; straight from the bridge and no stops along the way. As pristine and well groomed as he started his charge at 08.00 hours that morning, there is not a single hair out of place or any hint of anticipation as he stalks the durasteel corridors towards your single-bedroom dwelling. He's far too disciplined for that, far too in tune with Imperial propriety to drop any hints but if he is going to bow to these biological urges, no matter how bare and basic they might be, he is going to do so on his own, disinterested terms. It is a case of body over mind for General Hux; in this instance and this instance only.

It would have suited him better to have found someone of a similar wavelength to himself, with a similar thought process. Someone who was not a slave to the bodily desires and only placated them on a semi-regular basis to prevent them building up and therefore, distracting from much more important things. Unfortunately for the General, no such person existed and it they did, he was yet to find them.

You were the next best thing. Quiet, demure and dedicated to the Order with no character of licentious behaviour (that your records and a thorough evaluation showed, anyway), you were the best of a bad lot; so to speak. They teased you, the other officers, for your meek disposition; some even called you boring and frigid. _If only they knew._

He had approached you matter-of-factly, in a business sort of way, once he had made a decision and chosen to act upon it. He had categorically stated that he did not find you attractive; not in the sense that your looks had been a deciding factor in selecting you, at least. He stipulated discretion; you could do that, no one spoke to you anyway.

No touching, no kissing, no talking, "equipment" would be provided by him and would be replenished by him when required. Contact would be absolutely minimal unless completely unavoidable and would be conducted through one specific mouse droid.

He didn't knock, not anymore. Rather, he allowed himself in, gave you a curt, greeting nod in the living area before seeing himself through to the bedroom. That was your cue.

Hux remained in the rigid envelopment of his uniform; to be in any other state would allow you a glimpse at a vulnerability that you did not deserve. He did not look up when he was joined. Said uniform, you had your suspicions, had been constructed with an illusion in mind; an illusion to suggest he was more solid and more filled out than he was in stark reality. Why else would he hide himself from you, the only person (that you knew of) that he engaged in something out of the ordinary with? Of course, it had no bearing on the arrangement. And it was just that: an arrangement.

You had tried, in the months since the arrangement was conceived, to advance what was expected of you; lingerie seemed to be the most obvious thing. Various sets of various styles and colours but nothing seemed to stimulate him further; he was pure in his approach and so, did not deviate from his standard issue command uniform. Still, you wore it for yourself and he did not object, but you had resigned yourself to the fact that he would not be tempted.

Without a word, you assumed the position; the position that had not changed from the start. Back resting against three pillows at the top of the bed, legs spread, feet planted and knees facing in opposite directions; he sat before you, to get the best view.

Icy, indifferent eyes followed your fingers downwards, between your legs where moisture had begun to gather. What did it say about him? That he could watch a naked woman touch herself in a purposefully sexual way in the same way that he would watch a monitor on the bridge; impassive and almost bored. It was no reflection on you, it had always been this way.

Whether or not the General enjoyed it (it seemed not from his blasé expression), didn't really concern you; you upheld your end of the agreement and would enjoy it for yourself. Eyes closed, breathing ever so subtly climbing and head tilted into the support of the pillows, you would do just that.

The pad of your finger moved in gentle circles, waking the nerves in the tiny but crucial organ; each one rousing more sensation than the last. Somewhere in the darkness of your self-service (as was typical of the encounter), you could detect movement beyond your own contented sighs. It was normal for him to spectate before actually taking part, but you took no notice; ignoring your superiour, effectively.

The "equipment" that Hux insisted on providing and replacing was engaged; a modest amount of a good quality lubricant that you were welcome to, should you need it. You never did, nor did you take offence to being offered or his necessity to use it. The _squelch_ was familiar; both the dispensing of it from the container and the sliding of it along a shy, stirring cock.

Your finger moved with more precision now; dipping and reaching into your femininity for the General's viewing pleasure. Your index finger was joined by your middle finger, the two moving in sync to enrapture two separate entities in two different ways; one feeling, the other merely watching. Your hips lifted to meet them and why not? Lubricant be damned, your extremities moved freely without the help of a bottle; being sucked in by the wanting in your walls and spat out again, only to be repeated as the self-fuck progressed.

Your eyes half-opened, lids heavy with delectation but enough to spy him, only a foot away. You were the object of heightened fascination. Not just between your legs, where your fingers rushed your sopping cunt but how your head tipped back to the ceiling, how your lip was bitten in a vain attempt at self-control and how the sheet beneath you grew steadily wetter with every passing moment. Not to mention the pleasing chorus of groans and gasps that massaged his ears. Had he had any intuition where human attraction was concerned, he might have said you were _magnificent._

Still fully clothed with the bare minimum exposed, his own hand worked with intent; the organ in question poking through where his flared command trousers fastened. In an unusual turn of events, your General actually _moaned,_ prompted (probably) by the initiative you took to roll your left nipple between the fingers of your spare (left) hand.

Was that a flicker of disdain in those stoic features? Did he really admonish himself for savouring that extra, token action and reacting to it? Come to think of it, he rarely (if ever) expressed himself vocally; placing himself too high and distinguished to get so carried away. Disappointed in his lack of self-control, most likely. But he powered on.

He watched still, hypnotized by your body and how it coped with trundling to its peak; three fingers in and he was not the only one squelching. His hand seemed to be on autopilot, his entire attention dedicated to you and maybe, just for a moment, he wasn't so removed.

You came. Sprawled spent against the pillows, nerves alight, core tingling and breath short and scraggly as your body came down from its high; only then did he begin the last leg of his wrist-driven sprint. Drinking in the sight of you, panting, naked, sweating and hair tossed asunder, the image was all he needed for completion.

A few strangling jerks aided by the spots of pre-cum over the waning affect of the artificial lubricant (nothing beats the real thing), a stuttering breath as he throttled himself in time and rhythm with it; he reached it shortly after you. With a relieved and gratified exhale, he reached into his trouser pocket and with the greatest dignity possible, began to mop himself with the tissue he produced. You watched him clear away the drizzle of cum with your head still fizzing, another norm you had come to know; he remained a very strange creature.

Flaccid and clean (until he could shower extensively in his own quarters), the General tucked away the tissue then the appendage that dictated these weekly visits. Those effective thirty minutes would tide him over until next Benduday night, when the same thing would happen again, almost exactly. Nobody but the General would notice the convenience of you being assigned to Starkiller Base that would coincide with his inspections and when he needed to spend any great length of time on the weapon; if it took in a Benduday night, that is. And when it came for him to return to Finalizer, you would be reassigned to your original post. Perhaps you noticed but thought better than to voice it to the mouse droid. To top it all off, you would see him on the bridge in less than eight hours and he wouldn't look at you twice; as if the "intimacy" hadn't happened.

Trousers fastened, and full height reclaimed, General Hux managed to nod to you once more without even looking at you before taking his apathetic leave. No surprise there, he had that perfected by now.


End file.
